A Ballad of Phantoms and Hope

by K.M. Moronova

For the weary darlings out in the world who seek hope.

“Not this time, baby. Go on ahead without me. I’ll see you two later.”

It was never my fault. So why do I still want to die?

I believe in, well, love. In its purest form—in the most intimate and selfless light it’s meant to be in. And dying young, protecting the two people I cherish more than my aching soul can bear, is an act of love I would do over for eternity if I had to.

Ghosts are sadness and regret. Our hearts bleed as much as the living.

Why is my chest filled with so much torment and grief? Why am I still so fucking depressed?

I’m the phantom here, but they could all fool me with how distant and weary they look. People are meant to be happy, mingle, and laugh. I’ve forgotten how cold and cruel the real world is.

My light died a long time ago—flickering with the many exhales of disapproval until finally, with one big breath, it was blown completely out. Like a withering candle left out in the cold, surely to hush and diminish as expected.

Heartless assholes aren’t born, you know. They’re trained into it. Their souls have been drained early and thoroughly by the wicked people before them. Hurt people tend to hurt people.

“None of us are good. We’re simply human.” He leans closer and brushes my hair softly back from my face. “You feel the world more than others do, don’t you? You’re like me in that sense. Drowning in the expectations and eyes. Would you believe me if I told you when I was alive all I wanted was to die?”

because without darkness there is no light.”

“I just want to stop feeling. It’s an itch I’ve always suffered, a cold and dark place that I seem to constantly be searching for. A place where my thoughts have long been discarded and everything that’s ever hurt me has been shed away like a cocoon. I want to be bare, my skin against the shadows, my bones left to lie still, and to be utterly numb to the sadness that embraces me.”

Lanston, Hey, you. This is the last letter I’ll give you. Well, maybe not the last, but you’ve shown me that we can talk about the things that happened to us. And I want to share those things with you as easily as you do with me. I want to watch you continue to draw, letting the beauty of your mind infect the pages. But I’ll leave you with this until then. The last part of my tragic story. My depression grew after high school. The people in my life weren’t kind of my illness. They urged it on even. Do you want to know how I died? I’ll tell you. It was me. My murderer was my illness; it took me young, naive. I jumped from the bridge and fell to the depths of the world. Where the darkness finally came for me. I hope you don’t hate me… I know what I did was wrong, but what if I told you I fought it really fucking hard and for a long time? What if I told you that I searched for the light but couldn’t find it? Would I still be painted as a bad person? The one who only wanted attention? I’ll tell you another secret. I didn’t want attention. I just wanted to be gone. I wanted to be away from all the cruel things that made me hate myself. The words that made me hate myself. The bridge we met on, the bench I stood on and pulled roses from, was the memorial bench the local church placed for me. They didn’t put my name on the plaque. My family didn’t want their last name muddied with my sin, so roses it was. Ophelia roses. I’m stuck on earth because I was taught people who die by sui...